


My Boy Builds Coffins

by OddyNoxious



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Caustic is an Undertaker, Fluff, M/M, Not entirely historically accurate, Octane is a Pony Express Rider, old west au, that would take the fun out of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25600510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OddyNoxious/pseuds/OddyNoxious
Summary: The Rider always overstayed his welcome. He was daring, trying to make friends with the Undertaker. Too bad he was annoying.Self-indulgent Western Au where Alexander is an Undertaker and Octavio works for the Pony Express, do not ask questions, I just like cowboys. <3
Relationships: Caustic | Alexander Nox/Octane | Octavio Silva
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, come join my Caustane Server!  
> https://discord.gg/JfagGZb

It's a ring of the bell above the door. Alexander turns around, eyes focusing on empty space, then drifting down to the little Pony Express carrier. He's come by a few times- stays longer than he should every time. The Spaniard would sway his hips and saunter in; mail hung on his finger between twine. He was fascinating, each time Alexander inspected him, from the braided gauntlets to the flower on his bandana. He had a strange gun too- it was the most expensive thing on his person, a black revolver with gold engravings and a skull burned into the handle. It made the double-barrel beneath his counter look like garbage. 

He lights the match against the strip, bringing it to the cigarette at his lips. He takes a long drag. He'll need it to talk to the rider. Judging by his general person, the carrier was probably another hotshot gunslinger with a deathwish. That was fine. Death was business, and that put food on the table. He came through often enough for Alexander to recognize him- about once every two weeks. 

The rider set the stack of letters on the counter, adjusting the bandana over his lower face, "Compadre, you got an extra letter today." He can _tell_ the rider is grinning, "You know, I'm _supposed_ to drop these off at the mailroom, but I like to deliver to _you_ personally."

The words don't quite reach his ears- he's too focused on the expresser's limp, slow gait. His feet never made the correct _sound._ His gaze is drawn to the stack, orders for coffins and furniture, no doubt. The letter on top has a heart drawn on it.

The Ponyboy _dares_ to lean over, putting his elbow on the counter and hand on his chin. Alexander notes to clean it afterward. It wouldn't be the first time- the carrier showed up covered in dust every time and on a different horse. He blows a puff of smoke in the other's face. 

The Spaniard blew it away with a hand and coughed, "I think you got a secret admirer, Undertaker." 

Undertaker- despite its menacing connotation- did not mean anything. Alexander did double duty in the town by being carpenter and grave digger. It was a family business- his father before him had done the same task until his untimely death. He made _coffins_ and _furniture._ Alexander knows _exactly_ how much wood this rider's coffin would take. He could probably make it out of scraps. He's not that big. Perhaps he'd fit in a smaller one- a standard coffin was built to 6'8" in length, and the mail carrier barely reached his chest.

Acidic eyes find their way to the Spaniard's face again. He can tell the other is trying to be coy. Alexander takes the love letter from the top, flips it back and forth in his fingers, glancing at it, then promptly trashing it.

The mail boy jerks back, shocked, "How could you? They'll be so sad!" He slaps his hands on the desk, too close. He's overstaying his nonexistent welcome _again._

Alexander leans over his counter- his turn to invade personal space. "I don't concern myself with such _feelings,"_ he takes the cigarette from his lips and rubs the embers into the wood- right between the other's splayed fingers. This little game is _tiresome_ \- the Undertaker doesn't care for a _love letter. "_ Remove yourself from my place of business, I have orders to take," he taps the stack of mail. This secret admirer would have to try other methods to gain his attention. 

The Ponyboy rolls his eyes and huffs, "Well, if your _secret admirer_ comes by, make sure to tell him Octavio dropped the note just like he asked." 

So it's a _he._ "I'll make sure to tell him that, _Octavio._ Now do be so kind and leave." 

"Fine, fine, I get it, Alexander doesn't want any friends," he turns around to leave, then quickly about-faces to lean back over the counter and get in his space. "But can I get a note or something? I gotta explain to your secret admirer what happened, see-"

Alexander lashes out, yanking Octavio's arm to pull him face-first against the counter. "How'd you get my name?" He leers, watching the rider laugh a little. 

"It's on your mail, duh," Octavio explains.

Alexander releases him, raising a brow, "I'm surprised you can _read."_ It's interesting- Octavio _looks_ stupid. From the carrier's dusty clothing to his lean muscle- he'd fall into the same crowd as any illiterate farmhand. 

"I'm surprised, you seem to have the same functionality as everyone else in this town," it's not a compliment. As far as Alexander was concerned, the townsfolk were only useful to him for their jobs and jobs alone. As long as they died, or needed a new chair, he had business. 

"You'll find I'm full of surprises, Alex," the other teases. He _hates_ that. It implies he would come back just to bother him again. Why must he be the focus of Octavio's attention? Is he too dull to see Alexander did not care for such interactions? Humans were painfully simple and only good for graves. 

And yet? Maybe there's something there. Nevertheless, he pushes the other away. "Fun, now _get out_ ," he spits, coming around his desk. He puts a hand on Octavio's shoulder, shoving him out the door. 

"Okay- okay- okay-" the Spaniard spits various curses in his mother tongue. Alexander slams the door shut behind him, then steps over to the window. He peeks through, watching Octavio stomp his foot, steady himself on the railing, then limp back to his horse.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, Alex!" 

His voice is grating. It's unbearable. Alexander frowns when Octavio enters, carrying his wrapped mail and a package this time. Oh, his chemicals- this was infinitely a more tolerable conversation. Alexander takes the box first, cutting it open with a knife. He removes a bottle, glancing over the warning labels.

"So what's that? It kind of smells."

Octavio isn't very smart, Alexander has gleamed. "Formaldehyde," he explains, raising the bottle to the light, inspecting them. Once satisfied, he placed it back and put the crate behind him. 

Counter cleared, Octavio places both his hands on the wood, and jumps up on the top. He spins around to face Alexander and doesn't react when his leg hits the edge. "Do you mind taking a look at something for me?" He asks. 

He's uncomfortably close. Alexander glances down to the counter, now covered in dust. He notes to clean it later, "...Sure."

Octavio pulls down his mask. He stares a little too long. There's a scar across his cheek from some animal and a blister on his lip. Alexander takes in a breath to shove down the feeling in his chest. 

Octavio drags up his pant legs, revealing two, wooden, Hanger-style legs. It all clicked together in his head now- the sound, the lack of reaction to pain, the limp. "My legs have been acting up lately, and I wondered if you could look at them, you're good with wood and stuff, right? Cause you make coffins all day?" he asks. 

Alexander frowns, lifting one leg to give it a look over. "Mind removing them for me?" he asks, glancing back up to the Spaniard. He reaches over to his register, putting on his glasses. 

After some effort, Octavio unstraps both from his thighs, setting them on the counter. He watches the action unfold, noting how the Rider's legs stopped at around the knee. It made him significantly smaller. Alexander wonders if he would fit in a child-sized coffin. He was probably too wide but between him and the children? Octavio was perhaps the cheapest man to bury in town. He moves, fetching his toolbox from the back and opening it. 

"Mind being careful with my legs, Doc? I need em to ride horses," he catches the Ponyboy's grin and wants to punch him in the face. He looks too _relaxed_. He shouldn't be this comfortable around the Undertaker. Much less around _Alexander._ "Both of the four-legged and two-legged variety," Octavio bites his lower lip. Oh, he should kick him out right now. 

Alexander scans his face again, expression hardening to a frown. He hums, choosing to ignore the advance and inspect the right leg. They're dirty; trashed, in fact. "What's the problem?" Is that it? Did they just need to be cleaned? 

"The knee hasn't been moving right, and they feel _really_ stiff," Octavio says, gesturing to his limbs. 

Alexander hums again, taking his screwdriver and opening up the leg's casing. Dirt and muck fall out, all over his counter. He recoils, waving dust from the air with a cough.

Octavio is laughing already.

"How did you let them get like this?" He asks, narrowing his gaze at the other.

"Oh, you know, I'm a rough and dirty rider of the west," he says, patting the counter absentmindedly. Alexander pulls over a bucket, digging out dirt with a knife and letting it fall in. The process takes a few good minutes, and Octavio fills his ears with an insistent conversation.

"Do you have a horse Alex? I used to have a chestnut painted mare, her name was Navi, I kind of miss her." Octavio's thighs thunk against the wood. He always seemed to need to move. 

"One. A black draft horse named Stone." Alexander answers, scrapping out dirt as he spoke. 

"I really like horses. Better than people, I think. Each one got their own personality and ride differently. The one outside?" He jabs a thumb to the horse tied up outside. It's an average horse, a chestnut. It doesn't stand out to Alexander in any way. 

"That one's a gelding Morgan. Real son of a bitch. He bit me earlier, almost tried to rear me, but I made sure to stop him- I had to protect your weird bottles there," he looks at the crate from before. "Sturdy horse though ran for quite a bit with no brakes. Your horse go fast? I like fast horses. Your's probably doesn't go fast, draft horses aren't meant for that- why do you have a draft horse?"

"For the hearse," that was true. Amazing inventions like formaldehyde allowed for more showy performances of mourning. Alexander would never do an elaborate funeral for himself. He found comfort in the blissful, simple burial of a coffin and a small headstone with his name, date of birth, and death date. "I prefer a larger horse, too," he shrugs, "Larger man, larger horse." 

Octavio hums, "Do you like your horse? Is it special to you?"

Are horses all he could talk about? "No. He's a draft horse," Alex explains, slapping the leg to shake out more excess dirt. He's almost done getting the loose soil out. He'd have to deep clean it. 

"So Stone is a he? That makes sense. Can I see him later?" as he babbles and asks questions, Alex notices the Rider's body language. Octavio sways back and forth the whole time, patting the counter and looking around for anything to entertain his eyes. He watches Octavio tap his knuckles against the wood as if all he needed was the sound it made. 

Alexander takes in a breath, thinking it over, "...Perhaps, I don't think it would interest you, though." Stone wasn't unique. He was a workhorse. He glanced in between Octavio and the leg as they conversed. As annoying as he was, the Rider was a source of entertainment. Far more interesting than the whole of the town. 

"I bet Stone’s got a whole personality and everything, you just haven't bonded with him yet," Octavio stares as he finishes emptying the dirt from one leg. 

They converse longer, discussing horses and gun oil and Octavio's legs as he cleans them. Eventually, the conversation turns to the Rider's travels. 

"I've laid one person in every town on my route, except for this one!" Octavio puffs out his chest at this statement, like a badge of honor. At this point, Alexander has cleaned out both of the legs, and tinkers with the springs inside. 

"There's this shake that owns the saloon in the next town over, about fifteen clicks that way," Octavio gestures towards the south. "Her names Ms. Andrade, and lemme tell you, that's a REAL woman. If you've never had someone like her dominate you, you haven't _lived,"_ in an exaggerated motion, Octavio falls back and clutches his chest. He sits back up just as quickly, "The urban legend in town is that she's got a _real wolf_ in her basement _,_ how fancy is that?"

Octavio's life is full of adventure; he's gathered. The Spaniard is a wild, untamed mustang in a herd, looking for something new in every town. The only thing that held Octavio from running wild was his lack of good legs. 

He understood Octavio's story was another insignificant tragedy of the Frontier. The Spaniard babbled about his life- how he lost his legs to injury, and they had to be amputated. "You would be surprised how many people want to fuck a cripple. Some are real freaks," Octavio rambles.

Alex wonders how many people have fucked the Spaniard out of pity. 

"I hate wheelchairs. They're so…" Octavio shakes a fist. "Restricting. Horses is where it's at. I hate I can't run anymore, though. I miss that." 

Octavio lived his life to the fullest because he expected to die the next day. He's lonely. Just him, the desert, and the horse... It's sad. He's nearly finished with the legs. He wonders if Octavio would stick around longer. Alexander has cleaned each one thoroughly, lubricated the insides, and put them back together.

Octavio wiggles in excitement, scooting forward a little, "mind helping me get them back on?" 

Alexander pushes down the feeling in his chest again. "Sure," he mumbles, grabbing the left leg first and helping fit it into place. Octavio's hands grace over his own as they fasten the straps. The process repeats for the other leg. 

Octavio hops off the counter to the back, leaving a pile of dirt behind. "Gracias, Amigo," he leans on the wood. He's trying to be suave, "Can I buy you a drink as thanks?" 

Alexander hums, rolling his eyes, thinking over his tasks- "Oh, I don't know." It's a battle in his head. He doesn't want to entertain Octavio any further, but he's interesting. He finds himself enthralled by the Rider's exciting life. Different, at the very least. He wanted to know more, to _see_ more. Octavio is... someone new. 

Octavio takes a step closer, "Come on, amigo, I bet you'd be fun at the saloon." 

"Quite the opposite," Alex jokes. 

Octavio smacks the counter, "Well, is there any other way I can pay ya as thanks?" 

"Hm… perhaps I'll take you up on that drink, then." 


End file.
